


sleeping without reason

by riahk



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Bloodplay, Character Study, F/M, Face-Sitting, Implied Relationships, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahk/pseuds/riahk
Summary: His body falls forward, out of sight as his slayer comes into view; grim clouds choose the perfect moment to part open and let the moonlight through. Standing before her, clad in turquoise and leather, is a ghost. The specter she convinced herself she did not see, watching her with casual recognition. Dorothea’s lips part slowly, hesitant to speak his name. But the threat has been terminated, and her courage is overtaking her fear again.“Felix,” she whispers, the syllables simultaneously foreign and familiar on her tongue. He remains silent, but she can hear his voice in her head, replaying from a distant memory.Four years after the war, Dorothea and Hubert are still working for Emperor Edelgard to track down and eliminate potential threats to the empire. When a remote mission leads to a serendipitous encounter with Felix, he and Dorothea are faced with a clash of ideals, and a tense reminder of their lingering feelings for each other.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Hubert von Vestra, Dorothea Arnault/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader! This fic idea got in my head and absolutely would not leave until I wrote it down. It combines several of my favorite characters and concepts: CF Felix, Dorothea and Hubert and the spy operation from their paired ending, and a fascination with knives and their uncanny ability to provide sexual tension. I have a soft spot for Dorothea and Felix's dynamic and really wanted to explore that in the context of their character arcs. I hope you can enjoy this eclectic mix of narrative elements as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> First, some WARNINGS:  
> This story features knife play and blood play, which are both forms of BDSM edge play. As such there will be potentially triggering imagery involving cuts/lacerations to the skin, though I would not classify it as graphic. Additionally, this being a fantasy setting the depiction is NOT reflective of proper knife or BDSM safety measures. Don't try this at home, kids.
> 
> This story was also partially inspired by the song 'Luxuries' by Folded Like Fabric; I recommend listening to it to get in the mood (and also because it's just a darn good song).

She thinks she sees him in the audience.

It's a small venue tonight, what some might describe as 'cozy' or even 'intimate'. Maybe if she knew this town, knew any of these people in the crowd, she could agree. Dorothea’s voice carries the aria's melody from her tongue like strong winds fill a sail, floats the words from her lips like gentle waves buoy a hull. Her green eyes scan the strange faces gathered around the stage, unable to settle on a single audience member. Until she sees — thinks she sees — sharp amber-brown eyes glowering at her from the back row.

But she blinks and they're gone, and it's just as well. How could it be him? She scolds her own foolishness, the brief slip of her guard. There are more important things to focus on. Like the cool night air rushing past her as she runs through dark woods, or the roots snaking through the makeshift path before her, twigs and dead leaves crunching beneath her boots. Her target is still barely visible ahead of her, whipping thin branches through the air as he flees, body shrouded in the heavy aura of dark sorcery.

Dorothea grits her teeth at the disturbed, swaying underbrush slapping against her body as she presses ahead. It is sharp, crisp and dry, a mere spark away from setting ablaze. Unfortunate that lightning is the spell-singing she prefers; a localized storm prickles in her cupped palm, patiently awaiting the opportunity for a safe shot.

A cracking boom tears through the trees to her left, followed by a distant, pained yell. Hubert, she thinks, or the man he is pursuing, she hopes. They are too far away to identify; Dorothea sheds her concern, as her partner has taught her to do. The obfuscation of night makes it easy to narrow her focus to the single shadow fleeing before her, losing ground as the performer's practiced footwork brings her closer and closer. She calculates the distance, the magic swirls wildly in her hand, and as the winding path opens suddenly into a clearing, she strikes.

Jagged lines of electricity shoot into the man’s back and fling him into the dirt, his body tumbling limply forward. Dorothea knows better than to assume her opponent is down for the count, already seeing his muscles tense again as he uses the momentum to roll back to his feet, hands moving to prepare a counter-spell. She recognizes the gloom concentrating amorphously, one of Hubert’s favorite cantrips to lob at her during their practice duels. Remnants of her attack linger in her right hand, and her left shoots to the hilt of the sword sheathed into her belt, drawing the zigzagged blade just as her opponent sends dark magic flying her way. Her weapon glows golden as she effortlessly deflects it.

Charged breath drifts from her lips, a soundless song — there is Dorothea’s ethereal performance on stage, and then there is this. The perilous chases, the exhilarating power that flows through her body when faced with a truly dangerous opponent, all unleash an aspect that sleeps ominously beneath her skin. A thrill she still refuses to acknowledge when the sun rises. But it is the dead of night now, and Dorothea does not hesitate.

They — she and Hubert, Emperor Edelgard’s devoted sorcerers, ever dedicated to eliminating lurking threats to her newly reformed Fodlan — have been tracking these two men for weeks, following the trail of dark rituals and missing villagers along the western coast of Brionac and Nuvelle. Her opponent’s face lights up as their spells clash, revealing the impossibly pale skin and luminous shifting eyes Dorothea was expecting to see. The sneaking, the information-gathering, the wandering through remote towns has all culminated in this single fight. And she relishes every second of it, even as their duel transforms into a high-velocity volley of ether, permeating the grove with the acrid scent of ionized air.

Even as Dorothea feels her limbs grow tired, her feet barely holding on the uneven ground they stand upon. A particularly strong clash of blasts dissipates into the dark and both mages stare each other down. He is stronger than she expected, and Hubert is nowhere to be found. The fear she has grown used to swallowing down begins to bubble back up to the surface. She spins the blade in her hand once, twice, each swing gathering static. A rustling in the surrounding trees perks her ears alert. Reinforcements, she thinks, bracing herself.

But just as the figure parts his lips — to laugh at her, or mutter a more powerful incantation, she is not entirely sure which — his words break into a pained grunt. She cannot see what has warranted this reaction, the heavy sigh that ripples into shock on his face. A glint of steel comes next, provides some context as it emerges from the man’s chest, crunching muscle and bone. Thick fluid drips from the point, falls to the ground, and Dorothea’s hand claps instinctively over her mouth. She watches his pupils fade before her, turning cloudy and dark as the sword withdraws from his chest and dripping turns to gushing.

His body falls forward, out of sight as his slayer comes into view; grim clouds choose the perfect moment to part open and let the moonlight through. Standing before her, clad in turquoise and leather, is a ghost. The specter she convinced herself she did not see, watching her with casual recognition. Dorothea’s lips part slowly, hesitant to speak his name. But the threat has been terminated, and her courage is overtaking her fear again.

“Felix,” she whispers, the syllables simultaneously foreign and familiar on her tongue. He remains silent, but she can hear his voice in her head, replaying from a distant memory. “You…” she trails off as her feet shuffle slowly, instinctively towards him. His hands on his blade are shaky, and his attention has shifted from her over to the fresh corpse in front of him, his head leaning closer and closer to the ground.

His form begins to tip, to topple.

“Felix!” she yells, louder, her legs rushing as she sprints to close the distance between them. Her arms scoop beneath his own just in time, slowing his fall to the forest floor; his knees dig into the dirt as Dorothea nearly collapses herself under his weight. “I’ve got you,” she says, back to a whisper, voice dripping with concern as she spots a line of dark red running from his mid-thigh down, hiding its full extent under his tall boots. The crack, she remembers, the scream; in hindsight, she cannot imagine how she thought it had been anyone else.

Dorothea’s head swims with all the questions she wants to ask; her stomach churns with a thousand emotions she cannot name. But she is able to push her thoughts aside as the brush parts again and Hubert emerges, panting heavily as the other man rests his forehead on her shoulder, shallow breath warm against her skin. Recognition turns to brief surprise as Hubert regards them, but he does not dwell on Felix for long. There are more pressing things to report. He and Dorothea exchange a knowing glance, the silent understanding that one mage has regrettably gotten away.

“We need to get back,” she says, hands glowing white as they hover over Felix’s wounded leg. It is a hasty job, meant only to quell the bleeding, and it will need more attention later. Hubert nods curtly, waits for Dorothea to shift her body around and heft Felix onto her shoulders, muttering a quick spell to reduce the weight of his body against hers. If he is a ghost, he is a very solid one.

—

The walk back to town is silent, blank, a quiet that follows them back into Hubert’s room at the inn. Dorothea deposits Felix into a chair, mechanically gathers the supplies she needs to dress his injury — considering her and Hubert’s penchant for ranged combat, it has been a while since she’s had to perform first aid. But the years of tending to soldiers in the war is not something she’ll so easily forget.

Hubert settles onto his bed, diligently writing into his notebook, a nightly task that necessitates extra time after their recent encounter. Dorothea is glad that he is so enthralled in his record-keeping; her hands are kept busy with her own work, but the identity of her patient is proving more and more difficult for her to process. She doesn’t need Hubert paying his usual sharp attention to her current crisis.

She unlatches the series of straps securing Felix’s boots — the same ones she remembers, with a new layer of dust and wear on them — then slides them away and to the floor, inhaling sharply when she sees the gash that traces his outer leg down to his ankle. Magical damage, dark spellbinding that both cuts into the skin and weakens the afflicted area, slowing the healing process unless the enchantment is broken by a skilled white mage. Luckily, Dorothea knows this particular ailment like the back of her hand.

Felix winces as she runs her fingers along the bloodied fabric of his pants. “Fuck,” he mutters, his back pressing instinctively into the back of his seat, creaking the wood as his fingers grip the chair arms. Dorothea feels a pang of sympathy, but there is also a soft giggle, a strange delight upon hearing him swear. To her, oaths and profanity have never sounded more fitting than when they are uttered by Felix.

Her hands lift from his leg as she rises halfway, working at the belts fastened around his waist. “These will have to come off,” she informs him, blankly. He nods, uncaring, and Dorothea pulls down the dirty fabric to expose the cut flesh. Hubert, for whatever reason, decides on this moment to finally speak.

“You must have questions,” he says, addressing Felix as he crosses the room and stands behind Dorothea. Hubert’s arms fold calmly behind his back, imposing eyes falling on the swordsman gritting his teeth as more pain sweeps over his body. “And we will certainly answer them, so long as you answer ours.”

Dorothea shoots him an irritated glare. “Not the best time, Hubie. A bit busy at the moment,” she tells him, trying to keep her focus on unraveling the lingering dark magic.

“Time is of the essence, Dorothea. Our target gets further and further away the longer we wait here,” Hubert says. “It’s a shame Felix’s blade was so efficient in dispatching our opponent, before we could get the opportunity to question him.” Practical as always, and Dorothea realizes it’s the first time in a while where that practicality has truly ground on her nerves.

She opens her mouth to argue further, but Felix beats her to it. “It’s fine,” he insists, even as his body involuntarily squirms. “I know where he’s going, anyway. The other guy you’re after.”

Hubert and Dorothea share the same bewildered look, pointed at Felix. “You do?” she asks, softly, surprised both by his knowledge and the ease with which he shares it. Another question stacks onto the list already piled high in her mind.

Felix answers her, but his eyes stay locked with Hubert’s. “I’ve been following him and his friends for a while, now. They’re stirring up quite a commotion out here,” he explains. “But I’m sure you both already know that part.” There is an edge to his words, like he is preparing for an argument. Or maybe it is just in Felix’s nature to be consistently combative, Dorothea thinks.

A pensive hum rolls from Hubert’s throat, hand reaching up to cup his chin. “You will share with us what you know. It is imperative for us to follow this lead… you understand, correct?”

“I understand that information is like currency to you, Vestra,” Felix says. “And my intel has a price, but you can have this tidbit for free: there’s no sense pursuing them tonight. There will be other opportunities.”

“That’s excellent to hear, Felix,” Dorothea chimes in, trying to cut the tension quickly building around her. She remembers, now, that Hubert is just as combative as Felix. No wonder she has grown so used to it. “Let’s consider any further approaches later, shall we?” Her voice is strained, but as with her singing, her stern tone has the magical ability to end discussions.

Hubert sighs deeply, but turns to the desk in concession, holding no further words for either of them. A stack of papers grabs his attention as Dorothea is given the luxury to concentrate fully on her immediate task. Felix, too, stays aggravatingly silent. Not that Dorothea can decide what she wants to hear from him, what she is even expecting him to say to her. Whatever it is, she knows it is not a conversation she wants Hubert bearing witness to.

She wraps the final roll of bandages around Felix’s leg, wiping her brow and shaking her head slowly, working up the courage to break the silence. “That will do for now,” she says, pushing to her feet. “Can you stand?” Felix nods even as he strains to join her, still leaning most of his weight on the uninjured limb. He limps closer to the door, anticipating her next query. “Hey, be careful with that. Don’t do anything crazy,” she protests, acutely aware of his penchant for recklessness.

“I’m just going to the bar,” he says, hand already on the doorknob. “I need a fucking drink.” Dorothea resists the urge to stop him as Felix twists the handle and slips out into the hall, metal clicking closed behind him. Even with a mangled leg, he finds it so easy to leave.

A short moment passes with her eyes fixed on the doorway, but Hubert does not waste much time stirring her from her trance. “I’m not sure what all that was, exactly,” he says, placing a hand lightly in her shoulder. “But I’m going to need you to follow him. Convince him to assist us.” Her muscles tense involuntarily at the touch, a discomfort ill-befitting Dorothea. She can feel Hubert soften, hear the sympathy in his voice even before he speaks again. “Take a moment, if you like. But we’re going to need his help.”

“I know,” she replies, gaze dropping to the floor. Implicit in Hubert’s request, as always, is the “by any means necessary”. And she wastes little time stepping out of the room, determined to achieve the job laid before her, no matter how difficult she suspects it will be.

—

She descends the stairs to find the bar near empty, appropriate for how late — how early, really — it is. The tavern-keep flashes her a smile despite the hour, always happy to see her. She and Hubert have been using this establishment as their base of operations for several weeks now, and her shows have brought significant business. Dorothea’s name precedes her, after all.

Seated at the counter is Felix, hunched quietly over a mug of ale; he does not turn to look at her when she approaches, nor when she slides onto the stool beside him. Dorothea waves to the bartender for a drink of her own. Once the ale is poured, she takes a single sip before settling into the silence.

Felix is the first to break it, but only for a moment. “I—”

“Four years,” she interrupts, and he swallows the rest of his sentence. She’s not sure if he even had something to say, certain he expected her to cut into him like this. “Four years, Felix. No word, no explanation. Not even Sylvain knew where you were.”

Mention of the margrave’s name seems to rattle him, as though he has not heard it in ages. As if the sound physically hurts him. “Don’t tell him where I am, Dorothea.”

“No,” she starts. “What would be the point of that? There’s no telling where you’d be by the time the news reached him, anyway. I’m not going to get his hopes up like that.” She bites the words out with finality, not interested in following that particular topic any further. Dorothea is the one here, not Sylvain, and it’s her anger that needs to be addressed.

“I would hear rumors,” she continues. “A lone swordsman, wandering like a tempest through Fódlan, cutting down his foes and seeking out only the strongest opponents to sate his blade. It was the only indication I had that you were even still alive.” Her gaze turns towards him, watching him closely, the way he grips his cup. The way dark strands of his hair fall still into his eyes, messy and unruly like a maelstrom. She doesn’t want to stop watching, now, afraid that if she turns away he will disappear and she will wake up from the dream she’s having.

But this is real, she thinks, trying desperately to quell the joy that is finally rearing its dangerously optimistic head. Of course she’s happy to see him again, but she can’t afford to enjoy it. Not when he could just as easily vanish again. It is his one talent that surpasses even his swordplay.

He turns to meet her gaze, surprisingly casual. “Look, I’m as surprised as you are. I expected to find you in Enbarr, singing at the opera house. Not out here in the boondocks,” he says.

Dorothea chuckles sardonically, skeptically. “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe you actually looked for me in the capital,” she muses.

Felix sighs. “Believe what you want, Dorothea. I know you’re not here to catch up.” His chin tilts upward to the ceiling. “Hubert needs you to massage me for details, for the sake of this… operation of yours. Some covert errand for the Emperor, I assume.” She wants to tell him that he’s wrong, that she wants to hear every last story about his ventures, that she would listen to him all night long. But he’s also right about the latter statement.

“Very astute of you,” she tells him.

He tilts his head curiously. “You and Hubert as a team is… an interesting development, to say the least,” he says. “Are you two…” he trails off, motioning vaguely with his hands, an awkwardness she almost laughs at.

“Oh,” she mumbles, face flushing. “No, we’re not. Not most nights, anyway,” she adds with a teasing smile. “He’s much more interested in our lovely Emperor. Or the prime minister.”

Now it’s Felix’s turn to blush, though he doesn’t seem to regret the question. He appears oddly comforted by her answer, in fact. “Right,” he mutters, taking another sip of his drink. Dorothea takes the opportunity to tilt her cup back, too, pleasantly surprised by how easily she was able to share her secrets with him. Her shoulders relax, and she rests her cheek softly on her hand.

“It’s late, Fe. I’m going to have to get down to business,” she continues, brushing aside her guilt. Her eyes soften, catching his gaze and holding it, a hand dropping to rest lightly on his thigh. “We’ve been walking the same path, unwittingly, it seems. That’s too perfect of a coincidence for me to pass up,” she says. “Hubert would have you give us all the information you’ve gathered, and then be on your way. But I think it would be much more effective to have you join us.”

The smile that’s been resting on his face for a while now fades, and Dorothea feels her stomach drop. But he doesn’t counter with a straight refusal. “What’s it like working with Edelgard’s lapdog, anyway? I never would have expected you to follow him so readily, considering how questionable his methods tend to be.” He proves as skilled as Hubert at wielding implicit words. It’s not like you, she hears him, echoing in her head. The silent judgement hurts her more than she expected it to. And, frankly, it’s a waste of her time.

“Can you help us or not?” she asks, eyes narrowing with her patience.

“We certainly share the same contemptible enemy,” he says, standing by his indirect communication. “And I suppose I could pass off some of my information to Hubert, despite my reservations about him.” He sighs, shaking his head. “But I work alone. And I don’t want to take orders from Hubert, no matter how much our goals align.”

Dorothea sighs. “No one is asking you to—” her tone accelerates into anger more quickly than expected, rumbling into a groan. “You are so stubborn, you know that?” she asks, already regretting losing her composure. “Has it occurred to you that maybe this would be easier if we collaborated? Help us, and then go back to whatever it is you’ve spent all this time doing. Am I really asking so much?” Her throat aches, fighting back the tears that are finally threatening to spill out. She hates how difficult this is. How it’s exactly what she expected.

Felix inhales, unable to keep eye contact with her anymore. His mouth twists into a frown, and she can only hope that he’s as frustrated as she is at this point. They both stew in shared irritation, strangely reminiscent of their school days. Of their war days.

This time, when his voice cuts through the quiet, she lets him finish the thought. “Your singing is as good as ever,” he says, voice wavering as he utters the “good”. At one point, he might have called it beautiful, even more nervously, drenching the word in embarrassment. She suspects that beautiful is still the phrasing he’d choose, if it weren’t so painfully difficult to give her such an illustrious compliment. Dorothea decides not to think any more about what past Felix would have said.

“Thank you,” she replies, remembering his gaze on her earlier that evening, before the chase, when he was still a figment of her imagination. Haunting her passively, instead of the active haunting she’s experiencing now. Another ghost finds her when their eyes meet again. Felix’s gaze darkens, half-lidded, vulnerable. It’s been four years, but she knows that look. She'd know it anywhere.

She needs to leave, needs to sleep, before her imagination emboldens her further. “If that’s your decision, I can accept it,” she says. “But I’d like it if you’d consider the offer for a bit longer.” Her gaze drops to his lap, to his leg. “And I need to take another look at that injury tomorrow, to make sure it heals properly.”

“That makes sense,” he mumbles, more to himself than to her. Dorothea frowns, gripping his shoulder and giving him a light shake.

“I’m serious, Felix. Minimal walking for at least a day. No running, and definitely no sword practice.” He avoids her gaze, now. “Promise me.”

When he looks at her, she can’t pinpoint the expression on his face. “I promise,” he says. That’s the best she’s going to get from him, she knows, and nods slowly.

“Alright,” she sighs, taking one lingering look at her half-finished drink before stepping away from the bar. She flashes one last smile at the bartender, one that flattens into a line when she addresses the man still seated. “Good night, Felix,” she says. She doesn’t wait for him to reply before retreating back to her room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS:  
> This chapter features knife play and blood play, which are both forms of BDSM edge play. As such there will be potentially triggering imagery involving cuts/lacerations to the skin, though I would not classify it as graphic. Additionally, this being a fantasy setting the depiction is NOT reflective of proper knife or BDSM safety measures. Don't try this at home, kids.

The next morning, she does not look for him; whether or not Felix has stayed true to his word, Dorothea is not ready to know. She tells herself that she’ll check on him in the afternoon, for the sake of examining his injury, but the day soon distracts her with various tasks and errands. By the time the sun hangs low to the horizon, she finally considers stopping by his room.

Hubert finds her first. “I have a task for you,” he says, vaguely, before leading her into the back room of the tavern. They stop in front of a door that leads down to an old storeroom Hubert has repurposed for what Dorothea assumes are his more clandestine activities. She’s avoided asking. The stairs creak as they descend, torches flickering to life as they move. A nice trick, Dorothea thinks.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” she finally says once they reach the bottom, the air cool and damp and tense. “What exactly is going on here, Hubert?”

“Hmm,” he begins, as if contemplating how to explain to her. Dorothea knows better, knows he’s already practiced exactly what to say, and is merely giving her time to prepare for the answer. “I have Felix detained in here,” he says, motioning to the door.

Dorothea’s eyes widen in surprise, which quickly turns to anger. “You _what_?” she asks in a hushed whisper.

“No need to lower your voice,” Hubert continues matter-of-factly. “I’ve soundproofed the room. He can’t hear us.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, pulse quickening as his words sink in further. “Right, that’s one problem solved, I suppose,” she says with a groan. “Except for the part where you _detained the man we’re trying to cooperate with_.” Her gaze flicks about nervously, anger suddenly overtaken with concern. “I asked him to consider our offer further, to give us an answer by the end of today.”

“He sounded quite adamant about working alone,” Hubert argues. “I may not know Felix as well as you do, but I know he’s not one to change his mind so easily.” He smiles at her, his trademark catlike grin. “Even when it’s you doing the asking.”

Dorothea glowers at him, trying to pick which of her many grievances to surface first. “It’s impolite to eavesdrop on a private conversation, Hubie,” she settles on, fully aware that such social niceties are irrelevant when Hubert von Vestra isn’t getting exactly what he wants. At this point, she’s just curious to hear what he has to say for himself.

The response is nothing short of entertaining. “This was a business meeting. You know I like to have as much information as possible when tackling a problem,” he says. Nothing short of aggravating, either, Dorothea thinks. But there is a small flicker of apology in Hubert’s eyes, for the more personal excerpts that Hubert is incapable of wiping from his perfect memory.

And she cannot hold him in complete contempt for stating the obvious. They both understand that Felix is unyielding, that he is routinely defiant for the sake of it. Except that unlike her, Hubert doesn’t delude himself.

When Dorothea fails to respond, Hubert takes it as cue to continue. “So, as previously stated, diplomacy has failed. The time has come to use more… persuasive methods,” he says.

She suddenly regains her ability to argue. “I’ve done my best, Hubert. Resorting to abduction and threatening torture is not going to help our case.” Her stomach turns, thinking of everything Felix said about Hubert’s methods, how she’d been so committed to proving him wrong.

“That’s why I won’t be heading this operation,” Hubert tells her. “You will.”

How the request manages to surprise Dorothea is beyond her. “I don’t want to threaten Felix,” she replies reflexively.

“Then don’t threaten him,” Hubert says, liltingly, shoulders wrinkling upward into a shrug. He takes a step closer, lowers his head to hers. “Persuade him,” he suggests, voice husky and low. “You don’t have to even touch any of the frightening implements in my arsenal.” Dorothea feels his eyes scan over her body, lingering at her chest. “There are other ways to torture a man, Miss Arnault.”

It is difficult to make Dorothea blush, but that does it. “No,” she whispers, but she cannot ignore the part of herself that is fully intrigued by the idea. Her body burns hot thinking of Felix on the other side of the door, completely at the mercy of her whims. She hates how much it excites her, the idea of manipulating another human being that way.

Hubert exhales, straightening again. “It’s strange. You haven’t asked me for any details on the circumstances of Felix’s capture,” he says, tauntingly.

Her head hurts. She’s tired of the way Hubert dances around a conversation, like a cat toying with a captured mouse. Except in this case, it is more like two cats arguing over the fate of said mouse. “Fine. What were the circumstances?”

Sometimes she forgets how wide Hubert’s mouth can stretch across his thin face, but right now is a good reminder. “I’ve had him detained since dawn,” he begins. Dorothea resists the urge for another outburst, allowing Hubert to give her all the information at once. “I found him departing for the road as soon as the sun rose, eager to be on his way. Limping, of course, which made it quite easy to hit him with a sleeping spell.”

Dorothea blanches, wants to call Hubert a liar. But she knows that even he isn’t that cruel, not to her. Not that it matters, because she’s feeling pretty hurt at the moment. “I see,” she responds flatly, redirecting her glare toward the door, as if she could burn the wood away with just a look. And then set her searing gaze on Felix, the one who actually lied to her face.

“I take it you’ve made a decision, then.” A statement, not a question. She nods coolly.

“I won’t leave until he agrees to join us.”

—

Although she’d uttered the words with resolve and opened the door with confidence, Dorothea’s legs turn to jelly as she enters the storeroom, leaning shakily against the door when she shuts it behind her. Deep breaths, she thinks, eyes set on her feet, not fully prepared to scan the surroundings.

When she lifts her chin up, she spots Felix first; he’s difficult to miss, seated in a wooden chair in the middle of the room, his top half completely stripped of clothing. Dorothea is embarrassed to admit that she immediately notices how much Felix has bulked up since last she saw him. Enough so that she has to assume that the ropes binding his arms, legs and torso have been enchanted to help keep his strength at bay.

He is also asleep, much to her relief. Hubert has given her the incantation to awaken Felix from his spell-induced slumber, to use once she’s fully prepared to face him. Dorothea steps tentatively across the room, getting a closer look. Felix breathes slowly, chest rising and falling peacefully, hypnotically.

She shakes her head, steps away; she needs a plan. Some means to both convince Felix to join their cause and to regain his trust after resorting to the exact underhanded methods he has accused them of.

Trying to absolve Hubert — and herself, by proxy — of any wrongdoing is out of the question. Felix is not that stupid. There’s no dancing around the fact that, at the literal end of the day, he is tied to a chair in a basement by notorious imperial inquisitor Hubert von Vestra. And that Dorothea Arnault is here, complicit in the capture, her once-lofty morals compromised. The best she can do, now, is damage control.

A small metal cart is set up at the far corner, an array of implements strewn across the table. Dorothea has seen them before, but she grimaces anyway; she tries not to catch glimpses of Hubert’s collection if she can help it. Harming Felix in any lasting way is out of the question, too. The idea turns her stomach, and she doubts it would get her anywhere.

Hubert’s words echo in her head, unwelcome and unprompted. _There are other ways to torture a man_. But they are the words she needs to consider, because the best tool for this situation, she finally admits, is Dorothea herself.

She walks over to the cart, running her hands against the cool metal surface. There are no knives on the table, she realizes; in that case, she’ll have to use her own. On the bright side, there is a simple black blindfold amongst the supplies, which she ties loosely around her wrist before returning to Felix. She unsheathes a dagger from the holster hidden by her feet, swapping it to her belt for easier access. She’s ready to put on a show.

Inhale, exhale, inhale. Dorothea bends down to the shell of Felix’s ear, whispers the magic words. He stirs instantly, head lolling back and forth as he returns to consciousness, taking inventory of his current situation with a subdued, groggy moan. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, arms tugging futilely at the knots holding him in place. Dorothea stands behind him, waiting a moment before stepping into view.

“Hello, Felix,” she sings, hands clasped behind her back, leaning forward slightly so that her hair dangles and sways through the air and Felix is given a generous view of her cleavage. If he looks, and if the display affects him, he is very good at hiding it. Instead his eyes stay affixed to hers, alight with anger and a touch, Dorothea swears, of fascination.

“Hello, Dorothea,” he greets her, his voice hoarse. He powers through it, clears his throat defiantly. “I see you’re finally picking up on the Vestra method,” he adds, voice laced with an unexpected cockiness. Even tied up, Felix still believes he has won, by virtue of having the moral high ground. His verbal assault continues; she wouldn’t expect anything less. “Maybe you two are a better match than I initially thought. I think I hear wedding bells.”

She ignores the final comment, straightening her posture and peering down at him. “I don’t think you understood me last night, Felix,” she begins, her brain whirring into full improvisation mode. Lucky, then, that she has so much experience on stage. Her voice turns silky, then dark. “I wasn’t making a request for your help. I was _demanding_ it.”

He scoffs. “You have a bizarre idea of how to command me, then.”

The laugh falls from her lips effortlessly, clear as a chorus of bells. “And you have a bizarre way of keeping a promise.” His gaze drops guiltily at that, shoulders slouching forward. Dorothea uses the opportunity to ease the blindfold off her wrist, moving behind Felix again and slipping the cloth over his eyes, securing it tightly and brushing her fingers along his scalp, twirling them through his ponytail.

Felix seems to have no response to the blindfolding, twisting his head this way and that as if that will somehow improve his vision. She withdraws the knife from her belt, waves it in front of him, forgetting for a moment that Felix cannot see the glint of metal in her hand. “But if you insist on being so difficult, and on breaking your word,” she begins, placing her free hand on his thigh and leaning in close. “I suppose I have no choice but to resort to more drastic measures.”

As she finishes speaking, she carefully directs the dagger’s tip to the underside of Felix’s chin, nudging the flat of the blade against soft skin and tilting his face gently upwards. His lips part slightly, knowingly, and the vulnerable angle of his jaw sends a rush of warmth through her body. He’s been in enough sword fights to know what she has in her hands, what she’s threatening him with. Dorothea lowers the weapon to point at the hollow of his neck, deftly tracing a line over the skin down his sternum, lingering a moment on his upper abdomen before pulling her hand away.

His uncharacteristic silence continues, and Dorothea lowers into a kneeling position beside him, hooking her chin into the slope of his shoulder and angling the blade across his throat again. This time the cool metal elicits a sharp intake of breath; she can see the way he tenses, holding his head steady as a rock. “You’re so brave, Felix,” she coos, drawing the metal across and toward her. “But I think you’ll find me to be a very skilled negotiator.”

The blade leaves his skin only for a moment, and with a flick of the wrist Dorothea spins it in a whooshing, satisfying arc that barely clears his face. Her face slides away from its current perch but stays close, drumming her fingers along his upper arm. The skin is riddled with scars; some she knows, some she doesn’t, and she imagines that her steel against his skin must barely faze him. Why, then, can she hear his pulse pumping so quickly?

Finally, Felix speaks. "You've spent too much time with Hubert,” he says, as Dorothea teases her knife along the grooves of his bicep. She is more forceful than she was when focusing on his face, bolder in the places he is less vulnerable. He continues: “Would you really resort to torturing me for the sake of your Emperor, who you fought a bloody war for? Wasn't five years of strife enough?"

Now it is Dorothea who refuses to talk, so taken aback is she by his words. The trajectory of her dagger slows, lingers in more places. Felix shakes his head. "I don't buy it.” He orients himself toward her, as much as he is able. His voice is dark, cautious but still with that earlier impishness. “Dorothea... you’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?"

Her hand stops midway between his elbow and his shoulder, settled just next to a thin white line of scar tissue. He's right, but she's too irritated to see him catching on so quickly. Too angry to admit it. The blade presses in, just short of enough force to draw blood. Felix’s breathing has gone ragged with anticipation.

"You'll have to figure that one out on your own,” she says, articulating each word slowly. Her hand continues to push, the tip of her dagger finally pricking into the skin. “That's how you prefer to work, yes? On your own?" A drop of blood pools bigger and bigger where she’s cut him, and as she finally relieves the pressure it turns into a thin stream that runs satisfyingly along his arm.

If Felix has made some deduction one way or the other, he does not verbalize it. But Dorothea need only take a passing glance over his torso and down to his trousers to know that regardless of intentions, the seduction is working.

She pulls the blade away, snaps her fingers to spark an easy healing spell along his cut skin; there's no point in making a mess so soon. Even the trickle of blood dissipates into the air, leaving a lingering metallic tang that she can almost taste. It’s not wholly unpleasant, and Dorothea wonders when exactly she developed a fascination for the sanguine. She is overwhelmed by a giddy excitement, as though the knife in her hand is shooting adrenaline straight through her; it’s a sensation she tries not to think about.

Much more fascinating — and relevant to her work — is Felix’s aroused reaction, which has her own body tingling. Maybe this will be easier than she thought. “Here’s how this is going to work,” she says, pacing around him with the dagger still twirling in one hand. “I’m going to ask you for what I want.” In her other palm, lightning crackles loud enough for both of them to hear. “You either give it to me, or I give you a cut.” She brings her magic-infused fingers to the knife, static crunching against metal. The weapon glows energetically as she directs the tip to Felix’s collarbone, bright lines playing across his skin.

It’s not enough to cause pain, just to tease, but Felix still flinches at the sensation. “And I’m assuming what you want remains the same,” he growls.

“You’ve always been such a fast learner, Felix,” she hums. “Do you remember when we studied spells, back at the academy?” He nods slowly. “We were both pretty good at thunder magic,” she continues, smiling as she draws on the memory. It is a personal favorite of hers, but there’s no time to be distracted now. “Impressive, considering how unwieldy it can be.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?” Felix asks impatiently.

Dorothea whips around, moving the blade to rest on his sharp cheekbone; Felix remains stoic in the face of it, and she’s glad he can’t see her disappointed frown. “It can be very difficult to control, even for a skilled practitioner. I have the scars to prove it.” He knows this, of course. “Every stray spark has the possibility to fly out of control.”

Metal is still pressed against his skin, but he speaks anyway. “You always have loved danger.”

She sighs, dropping to the floor as she lifts the knife away. “I wish you’d take this more seriously, Fe. Seems I’m not the only one who likes to take risks.” Her eyes focus on another spot on his arm, positioning her blade carefully. “Now,” she whispers, close to his ear. “Are you going to help me?”

He responds quickly. “I gave you my answer last night.”

“Refresh my memory,” she says, manifesting another spell as she increases the pressure.

“I’m not working with Hubert,” he bites. She almost hesitates at the way he specifically doesn’t say her name. But she’s not in a generous mood at the moment.

“Wrong answer,” she says, slicing quickly over his skin, a tight cut that takes a few moments to bleed. Felix hisses, but she knows this pain is nothing to him. She watches the red slide down his arm, counts the seconds. When she hits ten, her hands hover over the wound, whispering a healing spell. “I won’t mend the next one as quickly,” she assures him.

“But you will mend it,” he mutters with a smirk.

Her eyes flick over his body again, thrilled by his excitement. But she can feel the boundary between pleasure and pain quickly approaching. “You’re enjoying this,” she replies. Her fingers grip his bicep hard, thunder pulsing through her fingertips without warning. Felix whines as the sparks sear his skin, leaving the muscles of his arm twitching. Dorothea exhales as the spell dissipates. “I can stop, of course. All you have to do is say the magic words: ‘I’ll help you.’”

Not that she’s expecting to hear them so soon. Instead he asks: “When did you become so vicious?”

It catches her off guard, mainly because of the genuine tone of his voice: no sneering, no sarcasm. She stands, faces away from him, crossing her arms. “I don’t know, Felix. Maybe it crept up on me during the war. Maybe it sank in when the Strike Force members all went their separate ways after.” She says it slowly, uncertainly, like this is the first time she’s contemplated the path she’s been barreling down.

Felix remains silent, and she turns back to him. “I thought when the conflict ended, when Fodlan was rebuilt, I’d get a chance to enjoy it with everyone. Including you.”

His expression is unreadable. “That’s—”

“Selfish?” she interrupts.

“Surprising,” he corrects. She wants to throttle him. “I didn’t think my leaving would be such a burden on everyone’s soul.” She _really_ wants to throttle him.

None of this is in her script, but Dorothea’s curiosity takes hold. She steps closer to the chair, peers into the dark band his eyes are hiding under. He's skilled enough at pinpointing her voice that it's like he's staring back at her. “Why would you ever think that it was alright to just disappear?”

He considers the question for a moment, but his answer sounds prepared. “All I know how to do is fight. I’m good at it; better than almost anyone else,” he says, a proud smile blooming momentarily across his face. “But no one is meant to do that much fighting,” he continues. “I did anyway, and when it was all over I was too far gone." The grin fades.

She can't believe she's hearing this, not after everything they've been through. "We would have helped you," she mumbles, like it's obvious.

Maybe to everyone but Felix, who has no response for her. Dorothea remembers to breathe. “I took lives in the war, too.” She spent more time saving them, but that’s beside the point. “We all did. If this is some competition over who has it worse… no one wins that. I’m lost, too.”

“You were never lost,” he says. “You stood by your emperor until the end — still stand by her.” He doesn’t expand on the statement, but Dorothea understands the implicit meaning perfectly, feels the pain seeping through his unspoken words.

Still, he’s barely making any sense. If he is so quick to condemn himself, to acknowledge the sins — for lack of a better word — he’s committed, why does he care so much about what she’s become? Why does he expect so much from her, to the point of pushing her away? “I was never lost?” she finally asks, still trying to assemble the pieces in her head. “What are we even arguing about, then?”

Felix sighs, and she can tell he is growing tired of this discussion. She hears his deflection before it falls from his lips. “You're really not very good at this torture thing.”

He taunts her, but he must know it’s at his own expense. Dorothea does not like being dared, does not like the terrifying urge she has to carve the knife deep into his skin. It’s not like him to be so self-destructive, to surrender himself over to pain so willingly; but if he's so convinced she's not lost, she'll just have to show him how far she's willing to go.

Dorothea moves to his left side, presses her palm firmly into the muscle shielding his heart, feels how it works the blood through his veins. Feels the skin stretched tight over the contours of his body as she slides her hand down and descends to her knees, fingertips bumping along ribs and the jut of Felix’s hipbone. She steadies herself against his thigh and positions her knife in the shadow of his chest. Determined to cut. “I won’t ask again, Felix,” she says, her voice impossibly monotone. “Like I said before: I stop when you say the words.”

“Do it, Dorothea,” he replies, teeth flashing in the torchlight. They are gritted a moment later as she slices; deeper than her earlier cut, more painful, which is why she can hear him struggling to suppress a cry. She tries to ignore the silent scream fighting to escape her own lips. The smell of blood fills the air and she counts: ten seconds; twenty; thirty. White magic seals the wound, but the thick red still drips down his skin; her eyes follow it to the floor.

Then she notches the blade an inch lower, resting gently and dangerously between two ribs, pressed by the movement of Felix’s shallow breathing. “Another,” she utters. Another chance to capitulate, or another cut. It’s his choice, and Felix chooses silence, shaking his head just to be sure. Dorothea obliges, wincing at the weak moan Felix tries to bite back.

She doesn’t stop to heal him this time, moving right along, wondering if he still thinks she’s bad at torture.

“Another.”

Silence. Dorothea barely waits, and lingering blood smears against her skin. Her free hand digs hard into Felix’s leg.

He huffs, shaking in his seat. “What is the damn point of this? Do you really think this will make me want to help you?”

Dorothea’s lips move faster than she can stop herself. “Maybe that doesn’t fucking matter to me, Felix. Maybe I just want to see you hurt.” To see him feel _something_ , she thinks, managing to at least reject that one before it leaves her mouth.

It’s too late; she already knows she’s gone too far. Silence soaks into their bones, bodies frozen in place as her words wash over him. As Felix processes what Dorothea’s just said and done. He is panting heavily, bleeding out slowly onto the floor, and all she can think is that she needs to undo the damage. Her hands hover over him and they are agonizingly close, his breath hot and rough. When he speaks, it is loud and jarring in her ear.

"Sometimes, you make me wonder whether I chose the right side in the war."

Again she is moving blindingly, unthinkingly fast. There is a loud thud of metal on wood as Dorothea flings her dagger into the wall, point sticking deep into the grain. She moves to draw another from her hidden holster, pressing her knee into Felix’s lap as she leans in close, tracing the blade over his jaw.

“You’re on thin ice, Fraldarius.”

He practically spits: “Just. Felix." The words are like acid, and she wishes he wasn’t blindfolded — she wants to see the indignation in his eyes.

Instead her upper body shakes uncontrollably, retracting the knife for fear of losing her steady hand. It falls to the floor with a clink. Her other arm is braced against his shoulder, the only thing keeping her from collapsing pathetically into him.

Felix's voice turns surprisingly gentle. “You said you wanted to see me hurt earlier," he says, lip trembling. "If that’s really true, then look me in the eyes and say it again.”

Dorothea's ears perk up at the request, though it's less what he says and more the way he says it. Still, she is willing to oblige. Her hands reach around to the back of his head, unraveling the tie and letting the dark cloth fall away, revealing the same face she remembers. "I—" Her breath hitches when she tries to speak, as though a spell has sealed her words. But it's just Felix, looking at her, his gaze devoid of the rage and frustration she was sure would be there.

"Well?" he asks flatly. "You what?"

She can't say it. All she can do is choke back a sob, and moments later she realizes she can't even do that. Her forehead slips into the crook of his neck, tears falling hot onto his bare skin and mingling with the blood, a serenade of salt. "I can't," she breathes, chest heaving as both arms now wrap around his shoulders.

"I see," he says, unable to adjust his body around her, doing his best to lean his temple against her hair.

Dorothea keeps going, her words boiling over. “I’ve seen you hurt enough times to cover my whole life, Fe. I’m sick of it,” she tells him.

They’re so close she can feel him swallow shakily. “Yeah?” he manages.

“Yeah,” she confirms, her tears subsiding, her body stilling. There’s an ache in her head and throat and muscles, a physical and mental drain that rocks Dorothea’s core. Yet for all her exhaustion, this is the exact place she wants to be.

“It really is still you, then,” he tells her. “Like I said: you were never lost.”

She whines into his neck and shakes her head, finally understanding. It’s something she feels, but cannot articulate, which describes most of her attitudes towards Felix. He’s always been good at rendering the songstress speechless.

“I’ll do it. I’ll help you,” Felix says, and she almost doesn’t hear it. He seems to suspect as much, and time must be warped because when he says it again she can feel that familiar impatience in his tone. “Did you get that? I’ll help you out, Dorothea. Not Hubert, he still pisses me off, but—”

“Felix,” she interrupts, finally ungluing her forehead from his shoulder and setting it against his own, their mouths so close she can taste his proximity. “For once in your life, know when to shut the fuck up.”

There’s a bizarre levity settling over the room, and Felix grumbles at her. “You’re the one who never stops talking,” he counters.

Dorothea inches her face further away, getting a better look at his. “You’ll help me? You mean it?” He nods, slowly, and giggles wrack her stomach uncontrollably. “Alright, then,” she continues, her skin tingling with excitement and disbelief, and this time she allows herself to feel all of it, to ignore the hesitance trying to creep in. Her nervous laughter crescendos, and she realizes she is right up in his face, that he is still tied to a chair.

That he is looking at her with a disarming intensity more persistent than the sun, and just as dangerous for her to observe directly. Dorothea rises to her feet, remembering where they are, and who is watching. “I’ll get Hubert,” she says, feeling the heat of this searing moment dissipate into cool reality.

All she can think is: Not here. Not yet. She walks away from him for what she hopes is the last time.


	3. Chapter 3

Night hangs outside Hubert’s window like the last time they were here; a quiet, chilling dark that is nonetheless more welcoming compared to the frown that takes over Felix’s face every time he sets his gaze on the pale shadow pacing in front of them.

“That’s about all the information we’ve gathered so far,” he says, finally finishing his briefing and taking a momentary pause, boots stilling on the carpet as he eyes the small audience of two sitting on the edge of his bed. “Any questions?”

Felix stares at his lap, stirring only when Dorothea nudges his crossed arm. “Fe?” she prompts, and his eyes soften when he looks at her. He shakes his head, still refusing to switch focus to Hubert; she sighs, maintaining the contact while she addresses the other man. “I think we’re good here, Hubie,” she says, stifling a chuckle when Felix wrinkles his nose at the pet name.

A soft clap startles him, and she finds it harder to withhold her laughter. “Very well. We’ll get started in earnest tomorrow morning,” Hubert explains, looking first to Dorothea, then Felix. “Thank you again for agreeing to assist us,” he adds with a wry smile, sounding much too pleased with himself. Felix pushes himself to stand, stepping silently to the door. “Dorothea.” Hubert catches her shoulder as she begins to follow Felix out, and her legs drag anxiously to a halt.

“Yes?” she asks, suddenly empathizing with Felix’s annoyance.

Hubert smiles, genuinely, and it’s the only reason she doesn’t take offense at the playful implication of his next statement. “Thank you, too, for performing so admirably. I trust you’ll keep our new colleague on task,” he says.

“Of course,” she purrs, turning back to the exit and finding Felix still there, waiting for her in the doorway. She hasn’t said much to him since they returned from the storeroom, since she helped him clean up his cuts and she took a second look at his leg, which she found to be healing nicely. Enough so that Felix’s limp is gone as they make their way down the hallway.

But now, there is not much else to say, business-wise, and she feels herself finally succumbing fully to exhaustion; the natural conclusion, considering her very long day. “He never shuts up, does he?” Felix mutters. “Not when he has something to say that’ll get under your skin. Which is always.”

Dorothea hums, taking the easy shot. “Reminds me of someone I know,” she says with a grin and a teasing look. Felix can only muster a growl in response to that. “Except Hubert is much more articulate and clear about what he wants,” she adds.

“I’m plenty clear. You just don’t like what I have to say half the time,” Felix argues, only managing to further prove her first point.

“Half the time? That’s generous,” she says. “Still a better ratio than Hubert, though, if I’m being honest.”

“Glad we agree on something,” he sighs. Their footsteps slow as they approach a split in the hall. “I’m this way,” he mumbles, motioning vaguely to the left. Dorothea sways hesitantly, eyes wandering over him as he turns back to face her.

“Guess this is where we part ways for the evening, then,” she says, so soft he can barely hear it, like she doesn’t want to say it. Felix nods, but fails to fill the silence quickly enough. “See you tomorrow,” she adds, somehow even quieter, gaze falling to her feet as she turns away from him.

“Wait,” Felix finally calls after her.

“Yes?” She turns back, eyes bright, fiddling anxiously with the fabric of her sleeve.

He stands dumbly in front of her, stumbling for a moment to find more words. “I never thanked you for taking care of my injury,” he starts. “Or apologized for leaving when I promised I wouldn’t.” His eyes drift down momentarily, but courage drives them back to meet hers. “So thank you. And I’m sorry.”

The gesture is sincere, and she’s happy to hear it, but there’s a pang of disappointment shaking her; still, Dorothea takes it in stride. “You’re welcome, Fe. And apology accepted.” Her natural coyness pushes her to add: “I look forward to seeing how you make it up to me,” she says, invitingly. She can already hear his chiding voice in her head, something about making one’s desires clear. But this is one case where Dorothea makes an exception to her usual rules, where actions speak far louder than words.

Like his hand grabbing her wrist when she turns to leave again. His arm tugging her toward him, her body twirling back like she’s dancing. Her lips crashing satisfyingly into his. That knowing look he gives her when they pull away, that foolish smile sweeping over her still-warm lips like a sigh of relief. The sudden realization that this is what they’ve both wanted to do from the instant they saw each other in the woods last night.

As if there could be any other alternative.

Felix cups her face in his hands and brings her back in, kissing her harder the second time, rough in all the right ways. His fingers flutter down her neck and shoulders and grip her waist as Dorothea pushes her hips forward, her own hands holding tight to the back of his head. They nearly stumble, so desperate are they to hold onto this, and Felix throws an arm out to grip the sharp corner where the hallway walls meet, steadying them as Dorothea pins him against the plaster.

"My room," she whispers, planting three quick kisses along his jaw before taking his hand and leading him down the pathway. She's been staying here longer, and she imagines her interior decorating will make for a better backdrop.

Not that they're paying much attention to the drapes as they barrel through the doorway, hands a flurry of unlacing and unbuttoning and fabric tossed this way and that. Dorothea gasps as Felix presses her back against the wood with a soft thud, peeling her top away to caress her breasts, teasing her hardening nipples. His tongue trails from the edge of her mouth downward, nibbling along her collarbone and moving down to suck on one of the soft mounds. “Fe,” she moans, scratching her nails through his scalp and undoing the tie around his hair, pulling his face further into her chest as her breath comes out in quickened huffs.

After spending so much of the day immobilized and toyed with, Dorothea imagines Felix is enjoying this opportunity to return the favor, grinding against her body with a deep growl. “You have no idea how much I wanted to touch you earlier,” he says, bucking his hips forward so she can feel the growing bulge in his pants pressing against her entrance, heat building even through their remaining layers of clothing.

She lets loose another moan at the friction, drumming her nails against the sides of Felix’s neck. “Oh yeah? Maybe you can help me understand,” she tells him, guiding his face back up to be level with hers. Then, maneuvering her lips to his ear, voice husky and warm: “Show me, Felix.”

The reaction is faster even than she’d expected: fire glints in Felix’s eyes as he curls his fingers around her wrists, bringing them up and over her head in one smooth motion, putting his wet lips on hers again as he holds them against the wall. “Find a chair and I can demonstrate sometime,” he breathes between breaks in their kisses. He shifts her wrists into one of his hands, the other tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then cupping the back of her head to better guide his tongue into her mouth.

It’s nice to let him steer, she thinks, her body melting under his touch. She draws the tip of her boot slowly along his calf, eventually sliding her leg fully up to wrap around his waist. Felix’s soft moan reverberates against her lips as she draws him in closer, feeling the way he tenses and then relaxes, his body unraveling as he tries to keep his grip on her.

But it’s too much to contain, and all at once Felix pulls her hands forward, draping her arms around his shoulders as he steps back from the wall. Dorothea lets out a surprised yelp as she barrels forward, feet flailing for stability on the floor as Felix catches her at the waist. His hands wander to her lower back and the base of her skull, fingertips running through her hair and sending a shiver down her spine. “Bed,” he says, ignoring the giggles beating against his collarbone as Dorothea processes their near-fall.

There is an unspoken understanding that they are both still wearing too much clothing. Felix sits down at the foot of the bed, working at the straps on his boots as Dorothea strips her clothes away fully. His hands still and he watches her, tossing his shoes weakly aside as his eyes wander to her hips, the bare skin of her legs emerging. “Focus, Felix,” she says, happily naked and twirling a finger scoldingly, motioning to the belts and pants still frustratingly covering him.

He nods weakly and attempts to return to the task, fiddling with one of the buckles; Dorothea strides over and rests her hands delicately on Felix’s shoulders, leaning down to kiss him softly. “Not helping,” he struggles to get out, even as he returns the gesture eagerly. Metal jingles and leather slides away, Dorothea’s hand trailing playfully down his bare chest and tugging at the fly of his pants, pausing for a moment over the hardened outline straining against the fabric. Felix’s breath catches.

Dorothea sinks to her knees, taking the cloth down to the floor with her. Green eyes drift over his cock, then flicker back up to silently meet his gaze. She plants kisses along Felix’s inner thigh, spreading his legs wide as she shuffles in closer, fingers reaching to gently tease the soft skin of his balls. “Ah,” Felix stutters, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, torso rigid. Dorothea’s head rolls to the side, curls tickling his skin as she smiles up at him dreamily.

“Relax, Fe,” she coos, her kisses edging further and further toward his crotch even as they get slower, longer, sucking at the muscle hard enough to leave small marks. “I am going to make you feel so good.”

“I am relaxed, Thea,” he says, and she shudders at his rare use of the nickname. “It’s just– it’s been a while since– fuck.” The curse comes out like a bite as Dorothea finally reaches his member, lips joining the hand still fondling his balls, sucking lightly before running mouth and tongue slowly up the shaft. “Fuck, Dorothea,” he moans, his body finally curling forward, his hands and arms going limp. Dorothea grips the base of his cock as she repositions herself, kisses up and down his length one more time before pointing her attention to the tip. She swirls her tongue over it first, tastes his pre-cum; she lingers there, maneuvering her lips to tease the foreskin and echo the happy whimpers Felix tries to conceal, his hand cupping shyly over the source of the noise. Then she takes him in fully, hand stroking in time with her mouth as she begins to move slowly up and down.

Felix’s momentary hesitance melts away as his fingers weave into her hair, guiding her gradually into a quicker rhythm, growing delightfully forceful. Her lips close tighter against him, a chorus of moans rumbling from the back of her throat in time with Felix’s own pleased sighs. He digs harder into her scalp, pace building, their voices growing louder and breaths shallower.

And then he exhales sharply, stops her, eases her away. Dorothea tilts her chin up expectantly, stroking him lazily as she wipes drool from her face. “Not yet,” he says, leaning down to kiss her, moving even her hand away. Felix slides back until he’s lying fully atop the blankets, watching Dorothea as she rises to her feet. She crawls slowly onto the bed, eyes meeting his admiring gaze, the same tempting depth she saw at the bar and this afternoon.

Dorothea can be tempting, too, knees and hands sinking into the mattress as she hovers over him. Her face lowers to his first before the rest of her follows, goosebumps rippling across her skin as they settle flush against each other. She slides her tongue into his mouth, twirling it in slow circles as his hands grip her ass, rocking her against him. From his lips she trails kisses along his jaw, down his neck and chest, and eventually rolls up to a seat. Her hips, straddling his lap, tilt up and adjust as she grinds her clit into the base of his cock, teasing herself slowly along his length.

He moans happily, joyfully, a rare look on Felix. Dorothea takes his hands in her own, laces their fingers together, begins to inch herself closer and closer to the tip of his member, feeling him press eagerly against her. “Hey,” he breathes, sitting up halfway, distracting her for a moment with a hand that sweeps up her arm and over to cup her breast, massaging gently. Then, he dives his hand down to her cunt, eliciting a gasp as he plays circles along her nethers, slow strokes that glide easily with how wet she is.

“You are really dragging this out,” she sighs, leaning her forehead against his as he continues to tease.

“I thought you’d like that,” he says, clearly focused on other things — which is sweet, in a way.

She nudges his cheek with her nose, enjoying the way Felix’s face scrunches, trying to maintain his concentration. “I do,” she tells him, her voice lilting into a short moan that leaves her voice low and husky after. “Do you like that?”

Warm lips take hold of hers the instant she finishes the question, burning with a defiant force. “Yes,” he breathes, decisively, smoldering eyes charming her to silence. He retracts his hand from her folds, lifts the digits up to his lips; Dorothea watches with bated breath, and his gaze stays locked with hers as he licks away the slick with his tongue. “And I was thinking,” he continues, drawing a line down her cheek with his cleaned finger. “That maybe we’d both like you sitting on my face.”

Her cheeks flush, taken aback by the smooth sway of his voice, how easily the suggestion comes to him. As always, Dorothea welcomes the idea, however surprised she may be, however flustered Felix’s determined look makes her. “Alright,” she replies after a pause, remembering she can even speak.

Felix leans back on his hands, lowering down to his earlier prone position as Dorothea crawls toward the head of the bed. Her knees settle on either side of his face and her warmth hovers enticingly over his mouth while she smiles down at him. "Ready?" she asks, voice a near-whisper, like she's trying to conceal the anticipation rumbling through her bones. Felix nods decisively before she drops down to meet his lips, and he accepts her with a muffled hum. "Oh," she gasps, relishing the immediate rush of arousal that comes as Felix tilts his chin up to better access her, shuddering as the tip of his tongue enthusiastically traces the edges of her entrance. "Oh, Felix," she says, shoulders melting down her back as he slips inside her, lapping slowly.

Dorothea's palms press against the wall as Felix's own hands hold steady to her hips, strong fingers digging into her soft flesh. Moans and oaths egg him on, encourage the trajectory of his tongue and the parting of his lips. "How do I taste?" she asks, rocking her pelvis forward to give him a better angle; Felix replies with a pleased moan of his own, squeezing her sides harder.

The pace is perfect, alternating between slow kisses and quick, assertive flicks of the tongue, occasionally taking her folds fully into his mouth and sucking. Before she knows it Dorothea is panting desperately, head rolling forward as Felix brings more and more focus to her now-swollen clit. His hands creep up over her stomach and circle her waist, fingertips padding teasingly along the space just beneath her breasts. Her forearms brace her, forming a pillow for the crown of her head as she continues to buck against Felix's mouth. From this angle she's able to watch his face again, dropping a hand down to play with his dark hair splayed across the pillow. "You're so gorgeous, Fe," she whispers. The sound blooms into a sudden gasp as he makes a particularly enthusiastic pass over her clit. "And I'm– I'm so close," she manages, lilting moans and quaking shudders overtaking her body.

As she says it, he speeds up his maneuvering, hands sliding up and over her breasts now, thumbs twirling circles over her nipples to match the rhythm of his tongue. Dorothea begins to see stars, begins to float; his name is suddenly the only word she knows. "Felix," she sings, teeth biting into her lip, forming the shapes she hasn't practiced in so long. But it comes easily to her, and in her euphoria Dorothea aches to remember how unbelievable this all is, how much longing has built up in her core. How Felix willingly placed himself under her, how he holds onto her like his life depends on it.

Her climax swells, fades, lingers. Dorothea moves without thinking, slides off Felix just enough for him to take control again. In one fluid motion he takes hold, rises to a seat and rolls forward and now he is on top of her, kissing her hard; she can taste herself on him, a reminder of the lengths he will go to please her. His kisses dot her skin like invisible constellations, scatter across her shoulders and chest like he cannot get enough. Dorothea reaches a hand to stroke him again, feeling him squirm with pleasure, and she thinks she might come all over again.

“Is it time?” she asks, massaging his tip with her thumb, noting the way he turns to jelly and his mouth leaves a sloppy mess along the cuff of her ear. “I want you to fuck me, Fe. Do you—”

He moves quickly and wordlessly, like she’s uttered a spell. Hands grip her hips to adjust her, his tip settling against the edges of her folds, teasing her with friction. She bristles with anticipation. But something sparks in his eyes and suddenly his usual speed declines, opting instead to ease in slowly. Dorothea reaches her hands up to his neck, watching the exact way his expression changes as he enters her, expecting he’s just as attentive to the minute dilation of her pupils, the slightest parting of her lips. Felix buries himself deep into her, and they stop for a moment, feeling that fullness, lips finding each other again in a long, sensual kiss.

With their mouths still occupied Felix begins to pump, slowly at first and then building upward. “Dorothea,” he breathes, completely lost now to the matching rock of her hips, the curves and edges of their bodies interlocking perfectly. “I missed you,” he continues, each statement interspersed by more kisses, determined to taste every part of her. “I missed you so much,” he whines, and she thinks he might even be sobbing. Dorothea runs her nails along his back, moaning happily, though she’s not sure if it’s the thrust of his hips and the feel of him inside her, or those three sweet words that are pushing her close to another release.

The Felix she remembers is not unlike the man making love to her now: he has the same guarded edge to him, the same old barriers she remembers breaking down one by one. And right now, those walls have shattered completely, bringing out the wild, unbound fire normally only visible through the windows of his eyes. It spreads all through his body, manifests in his messy breaths, the desperate confessions that keep falling from his lips. “Don’t let me go,” he begs.

But Dorothea is not sure if she’s ever seen him cry, not like this. She moves a hand to his chest, slowing his movement back down so she can feel every inch of him, fully and intensely. She cradles his jaw in her palms, brushes her thumb along his bottom lip. “I missed you too, Felix,” she says, feeling the hint of tears forming, catching in her lashes. “Come here,” she says, pulling his face toward her, planting her lips along the edges of his lids and tasting salt. He lets her hold him, lets her make her affections clear. “No one’s going anywhere,” she coos.

His forehead rests in the crook of her neck, her fingers run through his hair. “Good,” he says, rocking his hips faster, like her reassurance has given him permission. “I’m close,” he adds, voice hesitant even as his breathing deepens and his body begins pounding into her fiercely. “Should I, um…”

“Inside is fine,” Dorothea giggles, brushing back a strand of his hair as he lifts up from her shoulder. Felix nods, kissing her, so she can feel his final labored breaths and the long, satisfying moan that mingles with her own voice as she shudders against his orgasm. His arms wrap tightly around her, unbearably tense for a split-second before unwinding into a bewildered, relaxed heap.

And then it is just them, warm and together, bodies tangled and breathing soft in the serene dark. Dorothea sighs as Felix shifts over her, feeling his weight lift away and roll to the side so they are both on their backs, forms inverted on the bed. Their eyes watch the ceiling with a sense of wonder and fascination, as though it were splattered with galaxies and not simply white stucco. Felix weaves his fingers into hers, gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Dorothea?” he prompts, voice laced with lingering relief and budding concern.

He seems to love reaching out to her tonight, because she can feel the way his arm tenses with anticipation until she answers. “Yes, Fe?” She feigns flippancy, playfulness, but the truth is she loves the need in his tone and his body, the way he completely melts at the sound of her. It makes her melt, too.

“You were so quiet I thought you’d fallen asleep,” he replies. Dorothea giggles and turns onto her side; Felix moves fluidly to untangle their fingers, slipping his arm around her shoulders, inviting her closer. She happily occupies the newly created space, pressing her stomach against his side and brushing lips against his chest. Her free arm reaches across his body, takes his other hand in hers.

“Must you always act like I never stop talking?” she teases, sliding up to nibble at his ear, enjoying the soft hum Felix makes. His hand moves up to stifle the sound, and he takes the opportunity to plant kisses along her knuckles. Then, as if that was not enough to satisfy him, he turns his head and seeks her lips out, too.

Their eyes meet, glowing bright even in the dim light of the room. “Is it a bad opinion to have? Just… don’t hold it back for my sake,” he says, and she remembers what they were talking about. “I love the sound of your voice, you know.” There’s a short beat, a sigh, before he adds: “It’s beautiful.”

Before she can get too flustered by the compliment, Felix lets out a sleepy yawn. He shakes his head apologetically. “Here,” Dorothea sighs, wriggling out of his arm and nudging him onto his side, pressing her breasts happily against his back and letting their bodies settle into each other. Her arms wrap around his waist, nuzzling the space between his shoulder blades and tracing her nose playfully up to the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. “Comfy?”

“I am,” he tells her, and they fall into a rhythmic silence as Dorothea’s eyes flutter shut, revelling in it.

She’s not sure how much time has passed when Felix rouses her from her thoughtless meditation. “Hey, Thea?” he asks sleepily. Dorothea moans against him in response, urging him to continue his train of thought before she passes out. “When we were in the storeroom earlier…”

Suddenly she’s alert, guilt pooling in her stomach. “I’m so sorry about that, Fe,” she whispers, but Felix pulls her reassuringly closer.

“Apology accepted,” he says with a chuckle. “But that’s not what this is about.”

“Ah,” she breathes, and wonders if he’s about to say what she’s thinking.

“I… kind of liked it,” he continues.

Her eyelashes flutter knowingly against his skin. “I… could kind of tell.”

“I would be open to doing it again,” he says hesitantly. “With more preparation, of course. And without Hubert right outside the door. Preferably.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh. “That can certainly be arranged. Perhaps we could even take turns, next time.” Her giggles morph into a yawn. “We can discuss it… later…” she says, her consciousness fading. Right now, she needs rest. “Good night, Felix,” she adds, glad that this time she can say those words without leaving.

And glad that she gets to hear the same back from him. “Good night, Dorothea.”

Tomorrow they will have their work cut out for them, but for now they let slumber overtake them, let the prospect of what lies beyond stay comfortably in the future. Felix remains solid in Dorothea’s arms, and that’s all she cares about in the moment. It is reason enough for them both to be happy as they finally fall asleep.


End file.
